


until the morning

by honey_butter



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i think, im gonna be honest i have not read the books in a really long time and i have no intention to, takes place during some unspecified time during return of the king
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_butter/pseuds/honey_butter
Summary: “Mister Frodo, do you remember the time at the very beginning of our journey, when Merry and Pippin sang?”Love and food and comfort, shared between two Hobbits on a long journey.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	until the morning

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i have too many special interests right now and i'm trying desperately to get them out of my system.
> 
> i have never read the silmarillion nor do i intend to, i also haven't read the actual lotr books in years. this is based off of the movies and whatever i felt like including.
> 
> warning that this does contain a lot of talk about food and some descriptions of eating (not in a weird way, i promise), if that's something that bothers you maybe skip this one.

Frodo shook from where he lay, curled up beside their meager fire. He could feel the ring tearing his soul from his body, the meager control he’d kept over it flagging as his mind grew weary. Oh so weary. If he could only relax for one moment, maybe his bones would stop aching, maybe his heart would stop its unnatural rhythm, maybe he could actually watch Sam, where he was stooped over the fire to cook, instead of feverishly screwing his eyes up against its light.

“Soon, Mister Frodo. The food’ll be done soon.”

He couldn’t respond, and he knew Sam wasn’t expecting him to, but it hurt all the same, the lack of ability to even voice his gratitude for the Hobbit who had followed him so far from home. If Frodo could, he would do his best to help Sam with the rabbit he was roasting. If Frodo could, he would get them more firewood, or rest his head on Sam’s shoulder, or find a stream to fill their quickly draining water flasks. But Frodo couldn’t stop shaking, so Sam was not thanked, was not helped, and their fire continued to flicker weakly, their water was not refilled.

“Mister Frodo, do you remember the time at the very beginning of our journey, when Merry and Pippin sang?”

Sam’s quiet words cut through the fog in his head, the pain in his body, grounding him in the slight warmth of the fire. Frodo let the memory wash over him. It had been sunset, the light harsh in their eyes, and they’d been taking a rare, early break from the road. Merry and Pippin had spent the day pestering Aragorn with tales from the Shire, of dances and festivals. Even now, Frodo admired their commitment to getting a rise out of the taciturn, stoic ranger.

As the sun illuminated their small band, Merry and Pippin had decided on a practical demonstration of a Hobbit festival, complete with their lively, foot-stomping singing. Legolas and Aragorn had merely looked upon the pair, eyes twinkling. Gimli had laughed, a deep booming sound that rattled Frodo’s chest even from ten paces away, and Boromir had joined in the music, clapping his hands with a slightly condescending smile upon his lips.

Frodo had merely watched, too content in his position sitting on the grassy knoll to give it up and cause his aching feet anymore standing. That is, until Merry struck up a traditional jig, and Sam appeared before him, hand outstretched—

“That was one of the only times I’d been truly happy, you see. Since we’d left the Shire. You were smiling, Mister Frodo. Really smiling. I haven’t… I haven’t seen you do that in a while.”

Sam had held out a hand to him, haloed by the setting sun. His golden hair… his golden hair had shown so brightly Frodo had wondered if he’d be blinded. Sam’s hand was warm and calloused and comfortable in his grasp. Familiar. He’d let Sam pull him into the dance.

“You were practically glowing, Mister Frodo. Like a fire. Like how Mister Bilbo described his hero Dwarf.”

That wasn’t right. Frodo might not be at his most collected, but he could remember that it was Sam who had been the one glowing, not himself. Sam, who had turned beautiful and heroic in that blessedly quiet moment on a grassy hill, surrounded by their new companions. Their new friends.

Frodo swallowed, his mouth dry as cotton balls. He wanted to say something.  _ Ached _ to say something. But after all of the traveling he could not spare the energy it would require.

“Your eyes, Mister Frodo. Blue as can be. There will be many songs spun about your eyes, make no mistake.”

If anyone was going to sing tales of gorgeous eyes, they would choose Sam’s. Brown and liquid like honey. Warm like home. When Frodo looked at them, he felt his chest fill with the same feeling one got from a hot meal or a comforting embrace. So, no. The songs were not to be spun about Frodo’s eyes, they would be of Sam’s. But no words could do them justice, no rhythms could weave their vibrance, their beauty. If Frodo lived. If Frodo lived he’d commission a hundred bards to try.

“Our food that night was good, if I can remember. Berries and venison stew. Bread from the time Boromir had cut through town. Hearty fare. Ah, I miss those days, Mister Frodo. But alas I cannot capture more than a rabbit for you.”

_ It is enough, Sam. It is more than enough.  _ You _ are more than enough. _

Frodo groaned instead, brow furrowed painfully. The talking… it helped. More than he could ever describe. It seemed that the longer he survived in this world of ash and brimstone, the more things he had to thank Samwise Gamgee for. He should make a list. For when he can bear to speak again. When he can bear to tell him.

“Simpler times, kinder times, even if we did not view them as such. How easy it was, to rely on the others… I miss them, Mister Frodo. This would all be so much easier if we were still in their company.”

The only reason Frodo was grateful to be separated from their companions was that he did not wish for anyone but Sam to see him in this state. Weakened and feverish, befouled by the object they had already given so much to protect. Their friends had brought a bit more light into this dark place, they did not belong in whatever world Frodo was swiftly falling deeper and deeper into. Sam belonged least of all, but Frodo’s attempts to shield him had been met with fierce, final rebuttals. If Frodo was to live only a brief time more and never again see Sam, crying, screaming,  _ begging _ and threatening Frodo, he would die a happy Hobbit.

“But it does not do to dwell on what cannot be. I think I’d rather reminisce about your eyes, than what our current world could look like. If only I could smooth the pain from your brow, Mister Frodo, so that I could see your remarkable eyes again.”

Frodo’s chest heaved out a quiet sob. He needed his strength for tomorrow’s stretch of the journey, needed his will to remain resolute and unshakeable for the night’s continued battle with the ring. He could not open his eyes for Sam, he only had to remain awake long enough for Sam to feed him some rabbit so that he was not suffering from malnutrition as well. Or, not suffering too greatly from it.

But how he longed to look upon Sam’s face, painted in the soft warmth of the fire. Although, he didn’t need it. Sam was always soft and warm. His features required no enhancement from the glowing embers.

Frodo wanted to feel the warm weight of Sam’s cheek in his hand, the gentle brush of his curls on his fingers. Frodo wanted to brush his lips against Sam’s eyelids, across the tip of his nose, the flesh of his cheeks. He didn’t know for certain, but he could imagine that Sam’s lips were just as soft and warm as the rest of him. A shiver wracked Frodo’s body. He’d have to live to find out. And he would. With Sam’s help.

“Just a little longer, Mister Frodo. This fire is not strong enough to cook it quickly and I would not have you eat a raw rabbit. We have not yet stooped so low as to be at Golem’s level.”

If he could, Frodo would snicker, and then whack Sam on the shoulder for such a comment. If he could, Frodo would do a great many things.

But he could not.

And it was starting to look like he never would be able to again.

“What else can I talk about… You dance well, more well than I think you give yourself credit for. We used to shy away from the festivities, if I remember. Before all of this. Me, because I would prefer to be more acquainted with the potatoes than the dancing, and you because… well… because I assume you preferred to be with me than in a strange crowd.”

It was true. His uncle had thrived in the crowd, drawing from the thrill of attention to tell his grand stories of dragons and Dwarfs and treasure that corrupted instead of saved. Frodo had always been content to wait by his side, always the first to hear his stories but never the first to weave his own. Sam, likewise, had preferred to watch the proceedings from a safe distance. Usually beside the food table.

He’d thought it on multiple occasions before, but as the scent of slowly cooking rabbit filled his nostrils, Frodo became aware of just how much the hunger must be hitting his friend. If Frodo, a naturally picky eater by way of the Hobbits, was this hungry, then his Sam, his perfect, beautiful Sam who was more comfortable surrounded by food than others, must be starving.

Frodo promised himself that if—when—they returned to the Shire, he would learn how to cook for Sam. Learn how to create feasts as payment for all of the times Sam had saved his life with a slowly cooked rabbit held lovingly over a fire. Sam deserved someone who would take the time to learn how to mash potatoes to his specifications, so that Sam would not need to. Frodo knew it would take him a long time to get everything perfect, but he would do it. For Sam.

“When we return, Mister Frodo, the Shire will hold a festival unlike any we’ve seen. I’d like to dance with you, in front of everyone.”

Frodo shivered from his exhaustion and Frodo pictured it.

The light of lanterns and stars, the beating of their drums and singing of their people, flowers in hair and tucked into coats, woven throughout the field to make it colorful and joyful. Just like Sam.

They would eat until their stomachs ached and listen to Bilbo craft rich tapestries before watching Gandalf’s firework shows. And then Sam would pull Frodo into a dance, much like the one they’d shared upon that hill, although this one would be before their people, who knew exactly what it meant to dance to specific songs, to hold each other a certain way.

But that was a dream from before they’d left, before Bilbo had ran away, before things like survival and strength outweighed peace and pleasure.

Now, in their reality of rings and eyes and suffering, that moment on the hill had probably meant just as much as any dance before the people of the Shire. Their companions may not all know what the movements meant, but Merry and Pippin did, and the others had watched anyway, and that meant more than the watchful eyes of the hundreds of small, selfish people they’d known back home.

“It should be done now, Mister Frodo, if you are ready to eat.”

Frodo distantly heard the sound of Sam bustling around the fire, peeling meat from the rabbit to feed to him. The first press of flesh against his lips was accepted thankfully, his dry mouth chewing and swallowing the rabbit in practiced movements. After that, it became a struggle. The food made his stomach turn, made his head pound, the ring trying to get him to give up his meal because a weak body meant a weak mind. But Sam’s sure fingers only pressed the meat back against his lips, murmuring, “There, Mister Frodo. Just a bit more. You can manage just a bit more.”

For Sam. For Sam. For Sam.

Finally, Frodo managed to swallow enough to appease his companion, who remained pressed against his side as he finished off what was left of their meal. He heard Sam prepare their sleeping space, pulling out the few blankets they’d managed to keep and placing them on and around their space. 

When Frodo had lost the strength to remain coherent after their trekking, Sam had begun to sleep beside him. It was easier, if he needed something, for Frodo to get his attention like that. And it kept him warmer. Kept him safer.

Now, Sam curled himself around Frodo, wrapping an arm strengthened by travel and work across his chest. Even in sleep, Sam provided Frodo with more comfort than he could have ever asked for. And so, Frodo found himself warm and safe inside of Sam’s arms, and though his lungs rattled and his body ached, he was able to find rest.

As he drifted off, he felt the warm, solid brush of lips against his temple. 

“Until the morning, Mister Frodo.”

_ Until the morning, Sam. _

**Author's Note:**

> okay that's all folks. i'm on tumblr at [labelleofbelfastcity](https://labelleofbelfastcity.tumblr.com/) i cannot promise i will ever be on the lotr train again but hey feel free to stop by. 
> 
> it's really late and i should be sleeping but instead i wrote this, if there are any glaring mistakes i'm sorry. like i said it's late.
> 
> have a wonderful day/night and don't be shy to leave a comment!!


End file.
